All Chapters of His Son, Her Secret: Chapter 241 - Chapter 250

The long, antique mahogany table was lined with a full spread: sweet corn empanadas stuffed with salty cheese, buttery toast still warm from the oven, herb-sprinkled scrambled eggs, and a small bowl of tropical fruits arranged so neatly it looked like a painting.Pascha sat to the right of my father, and the two of them had been deep in business talk long before I even sat down. Their topics: land expansion, digital assets, and how crypto was affecting market stability in Latin America.“I can’t believe they’re still allowing transactions that big through Buenos Aires. With a government like that?” my father raised an eyebrow.Pascha shrugged, dipping his toast into his egg yolk. “Legal certainty is just a narrative game. What matters is who’s sitting at the final boardroom table.”My father chuckled. “You sound like my father. But he never had much love for the Russians.”“And Russia never cared much about who liked them,” Pascha replied coolly. “But Carlos, we’re talking about long

The Moguel family lunch was held out on the mansion’s back terrace, with a long table stretching under a blooming frangipani tree. I sat beside Pascha, who looked almost... defensive, surrounded by the full blast of energy that was my mother’s side of the family. Loud, chaotic, and moving way too fast for his Eastern European logic.“Oh, Dios mío, look how tall this man is!” Aunt Lucinda’s voice rose above the laughter, her pastel purple hair catching the sun, her eyes lined with thick eyeliner. “How do you even stand eye-to-eye with Belva? You must have hidden lifts in your shoes, huh?”Pascha barely opened his mouth before Aunt Lucinda pinched his cheek, not gently, but the kind of firm Latina pinch passed down through generations of stubborn women with strong hands and soft hearts.“Ow,” Pascha winced. “I’ve never felt like prey at a dining table before.”“Love’s supposed to hurt a little, sweetheart,” Aunt Lucinda replied, patting his hand. “That’s how you know it’s real.”I laugh

I sat on the edge of the bed. The warm orange juice passed from Mom’s hand to mine. I accepted it carefully.It tasted a little sour. A little sweet. But more than anything… strange. Because I couldn’t remember the last time Mama had made anything for me. Maybe when I was still a child, long before expectations, disappointed stares, and silent exiles became our primary language.“It’s… good,” I whispered.She didn’t respond. She just sat at the far end of the bed, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed straight ahead.“I’m sorry.”The words hung in the air like incense smoke, slow to disappear.My fingers tightened around the glass. My chest felt tight with something I couldn’t quite name. Surprise? Anger? I didn’t know.She didn’t turn to look at me. Her voice stayed soft. “I know you weren’t waiting for that. And maybe… you don’t need it.”I watched her silently. The lamplight drew a faint shadow down the side of her face.“I used to think being tough, being distant... not gett

I froze.The air in the room shifted. Not cold. Not warm. Just heavy....like my body was suddenly coated in some invisible, sticky liquid that clung to my skin and made it hard to breathe.Those footsteps... they were getting closer. The sound of his shoes on the metal floor hit like slow bullets, each one slamming into a different part of me.I jerked backward. My hand fumbled for the edge of the table, dragging my body away, my knees scraping across the floor with a faint screech. My breath came in short, jagged bursts.My chest was tight, like my lungs had forgotten how to function.“Don’t come near me,” I hissed. My voice cracked, raw and shredded, more a strangled scream than actual speech.Ben... no.That wasn’t Ben. But the face was the same.The same face that once shared my bed when the power went out during storms. The same face that used to steal cookies from the kitchen and blame it on me with a laugh.The same face now staring at me.....blank. Emotionless.His lips curved

I took one step forward.She didn’t move.I wasn’t sure if she even heard me, or if she was just letting gravity hold her in place. But when I got close enough to reach—Without a word, without a signal, Belva leaned into my chest.Her head landed right where my collarbone met the hammering rhythm of my heart. Her hands were trembling as they touched my sides, then gripped me tight.I didn’t speak.My hands rose slowly to her back, gently tracing over it with an open palm.And when her shaky breath touched the skin of my neck, I knew.She was crying.Not with screams. Not with dramatic sobs like in the movies. But in the quietest, most devastating way. Silent tears with no energy to fall. Only a trembling breath, a quivering shoulder, and sobs buried somewhere under her skin.I lowered my head and kissed the crown of hers.Her hair was short now. I still wasn’t used to it. But the scent was the same. That scent had lived in my memory since the first time we argued back in college, five